A Sudden Wild Magic

“The king,” Philo said. “If you would be so good.”

“Very well,” the lady said sweetly. “Meanwhile we shall, of course, keep you safely here. The king wouldn’t want to lose you. And of course, we’re always terribly glad to see gualdians here in Leathe. We suffer from such a dearth of gualdian blood. It’s such a hardship for us. Gualdians are so much better at magework than mere humans. But luckily, half-gualdians are quite as good. It’s a pity you’re such a funny little specimen. We’ll just have to hope that your offspring turn out a little more normal.”

Philo, for all his bold talk, must have known she was playing with him. As he realized the extent of it, his face flushed deep red. Herrel looked up and leered at him. Lady Marceny laughed outright.

“Or with such big feet,” she said. “It’s going to be quite hard to tempt any of my girls with you. But we can always use artificial insemination. It won’t hurt you a bit as long as you’re good and do what you’re told.”

Philo, with his face so dark with blood that he looked ill, started to say, “I — won’t—”

Lady Marceny held her hand up gracefully and stopped him. “Won’t? Is your arm still worrying you? You got off very lightly, you know. It could be a lot, lot worse. Please remember that you are a trespasser on my estate. Now I’m going to let you go away to a nice quiet room where you can think about this. I’m sure that by this evening you’ll have decided to be sensible, and if you are, I might get in touch with the king about you.”

Philo’s face drained to white as he was led away through another door. There was a decorous little spurt of murmuring and laughter from all the women present.

It was entirely derisive. “That a friend of the king’s!” someone behind Zillah said, and the satin-clothed lady beside her said, “Lord of Forests! She’d better not pick me for a mother — not with that!” As she said it, the woman gripped Zillah by the elbow and propelled her toward the dais. Zillah hastily took hold of Marcus’s hand, or he would have been left behind, staring after Philo.

“Bilo god?” he asked in doleful bewilderment.

“Hush, love.” Zillah had known she would be unable to deal with Lady Marceny from the moment she saw those eyes of hers. Now Lady Marceny leaned forward, and those same eyes urgently, deeply, and precisely stared into Zillah’s, exploring for the wincing innermost tender parts of her with a power that was almost like tenderness, but was not.

“Now you, dear,” Lady Marceny said. “Perhaps you can explain a bit more clearly than the little gualdian. I’m very puzzled about you all. How did you arrive in my grove?”

Follow Philo’s lead, Zillah thought. Talking about the king seemed to have done no good. But Philo, for some reason, had shown her that he did not want the woman to know they had been on Arth. And she was so bad at lying — and always worse with eyes like that searching into her. Mother could always screw the truth out of her. She had a moment of ridiculous homesickness, wishing she were back in Arth being questioned by the High Head. He had powerful eyes too, but never seemed to use them this way.

“I really haven’t too much idea,” she said. “We were all in the king’s grove one minute, and next minute we were in yours. I really do apologize—”

“Bilo god?” Marcus asked again.

“Quiet, love — I’ll explain later.” Zillah was glad of the interruption. It enabled her to free her eyes from Lady Marceny’s and turn them down to Marcus clinging to her leg. It gave her a respite in which her mind might work. Would she tell the story she’d repeated to the High Head in Arth, or—? No. But what, then? Something nearer the truth, perhaps. It was said that the best lies were near the truth. “It all seems to be some mistake — er — my lady.”

“Really?” Lady Marceny said, with sweet touches of disbelief. “Well, naturally any young woman is more than welcome in Leathe. What is your name, dear?”

“Zillah Green.”

The lady’s beautifully arched eyebrows rose higher. “Indeed? What a strange name for a gualdian! You are gualdian, aren’t you, dear?”

“Oh no, my lady.” Being unable to look at those eyes, Zillah looked past Lady Marceny’s carefully arranged hair, with what she hoped was perfect frankness. “I come from another country.”

“Azandi?” said Lady Marceny. “Surely not? Everyone there is black, dear.”

“I know — but there are other countries,” Zillah said, hoping this was true, hoping some warning might come from Herrel if she went too far astray. He was sitting a yard away — too close for comfort — staring vaguely into space, and she had him in the corner of her eye the whole time. “My country’s quite a small island in the southern hemisphere.” She looked past Lady Marceny’s face and thought limpidly of New Zealand.

“Oh — Pridain or one of those places!” The way the lady said this suggested that such an island counted as Third World — or Fourth World, if that was possible. Marceny turned abruptly to Herrel. “Isn’t she gualdian?”